Variation
by Mei Hitokiri
Summary: Sherlock goes to his brother for help with his work and Mycroft does his best to assist. Like most things, the brothers have their own way of going about it. [Sherlock/Mycroft if you read the undertones. You have been warned.]


**Variation [Or: How Meiosis and Genetic Variation are the Cause of Change within Humanity]**

Mycroft's bedroom door thudded open with such force that he was fairly certain it had dented the plaster on the other side, where the handle had impacted with the wall. Glancing up from the report he'd been reading, he was treated to the increasingly rare sight of his younger brother. Having come home for Mummy's Summer Gala – the capitals were required, even in thought – this was the first time he'd seen Sherlock in the near week that he'd been home.

"I don't get it." Sherlock stated, staling into the room. He slammed the door shut and flung himself onto Mycroft's bed.

"Hello to you too, brother." Mycroft replied dryly, closing the folder and capping his pen. "What don't you get?" Sherlock grumbled something unintelligible and threw a book towards his brother. Mycroft picked it up from where it had landed at his feet. (Rather tentatively, he would admit. One could never be too cautious when Sherlock threw things at them.) "Cell division and genetic variation?" Mycroft leafed through the pages of the textbook, gleaning the gist of it rather quickly. "What's the issue?" Sherlock scrambled off the bed in a whirlwind of limbs, snatching the book from Mycroft's hands and shaking it viciously.

"This! All of it!" He threw the book back to the floor with a thud and wrung his hands through his hair, pacing like a caged animal. "I read it over and over and it won't stay in! It's simple, I understand it, but I just cannot remember it!" During his rant, Sherlock's voice had steadily risen in volume, to the point where he was now yelling at the top of his voice. When he turned back to face his brother, his cheeks were flushed crimson and his eyes glistened wetly. "I don't get it, My." At the first sniff and quiver of the bottom lip, Mycroft had stood and gathered his brother into his arms.

"Shh… It's ok, Bratik. We'll work it out." The tears dampened the shoulder of Mycroft's shirt, and he rubbed soothing circles on his brother's back. "Sherlock, calm down. Come on now." Murmuring pleasantries, he walked them back until they were cuddled together on the bed. Sherlock rolled over and tucked his head under Mycroft's chin. "What's the basis of everything in this section?" Mycroft asked softly, still rubbing Sherlock's back.

"Meiosis and mitosis." Sherlock mumbled into his brother's neck.

"And how do each of these progress?" Mycroft prompted, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's curls.

"Prophase, metaphase, anaphase, telophase, cytokinesis. Meiosis then repeats to produce gametes." Sherlock had tensed in his arms, fingers clutching desperately at Mycroft's shirt.

"What's the problem?"

"I can't remember, or explain, what happens at each stage!" The outburst startled them both, Sherlock turning his head and hiding once again in his brother's shoulder.

"I doubt that's true." Sherlock twisted the material of Mycroft's shirt so violently that the material threatened to tear. Gentle fingers reached for the clenched fists, easing them open and lacing them together.

"Can you tell me what happens?"

"Yes." Came the muttered reply, laced with venom and – if he hadn't heard it, he wouldn't have believed it – self-loathing. "But not in any detail, and not which stage they occur in. And I'm liable to miss steps out, or mix them."

With a sigh, Mycroft eased Sherlock away from his body. This line of argument was obviously futile, so he decided a change of tactic was in order.

"It doesn't matter." He stated. "Why does it matter if you can't get this section perfect? You won't fail." Sherlock's face changed completely, falling as if every- and anything holding it in place had been cut. "Sherlock…?" Mycroft began, reaching to cup his brother's cheek. The young genius recoiled as if he'd been struck, scrambling off the bed and sprinting for the door.

After nearly an hour of searching, Mycroft found him on the far side of the lake; arms around the neck of his – or rather, Mycroft's that he 'borrowed' – horse. Dismounting from his own horse, he went and sat on a rock not far from his brother and waited. Silhouetted against the setting sun, and dressed in his black riding jacket, Sherlock cut quite the figure; accentuated by the sleek power of the black stallion he was propped against. The silence dragged on for so long that Mycroft began to wonder whether the sun would set fully before his brother spoke again.

"I failed." Came the quiet confession. In the novels he sometimes indulged in, people wrote that the words sounded like a round being fired. Mycroft was inclined to disagree; these were the breaths of a newborn, or the rustle of blades of grass as they swayed in the wind, as soft as they were spoken. "The first test I had ever prepared for, and I failed it." Sherlock couldn't meet Mycroft's eye, instead staring to the horizon.

"Bottom of the class?" He replied hesitantly, hoping his brother wouldn't bolt again. The answering scoff told him that the answer was no.

"Not enough to get me into University. Into Cambridge." Mycroft sighed, stepping up to Sherlock and twining his arms around his waist. He tilted his head forward, resting it on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I don't think Cambridge will care, once they've seen what you can do. And if they do, then King's or Imperial won't. UCL certainly." Sherlock let go of the horse to card his fingers through Mycroft's hair.

"They're all in London." He breathed, Mycroft only catching the words because they ghosted across his skin.

"Yes, well. I'll admit to liking the idea of having you close. I still have a spare room, you know." Sherlock turned his head enough to rest his forehead against the side of Mycroft's head.

"…I think I'd like that too."


End file.
